The Fulfillment (20 page)

Jonathan slipped the letter into his cambric pocket when Mrs. Getchner handed it to him, to wait until he was away from the kitchen flurry before he read it.

It was dark when they finished eating and headed for the barn. Jonathan claimed the lantern, sitting apart from the others, who jawed awhile before turning in. The floor of the loft was swept clean in a wide circle around the lantern to prevent fires. Jonathan knelt on the floor, holding the letter toward the lamplight, haunches low, hands high, as he strained to read the words in the flickering glow. A smile creased his eyes as he pictured Mary inviting Amos and Tony in for coffee. Nobody could make a cup of coffee like Mary, he thought.

But then his expression sobered as he progressed through the letter. When he finished
reading, he lay it lightly on his lowered knee, holding it there loosely between two fingers. His other knee was raised, and he braced it with an elbow as he sat motionless, pondering. A picture of her as she must have looked while writing came to him. Then he looked toward the cluster of men, reclining in haphazard poses on the hay. Aaron was smiling, listening to Joe telling some story about how his kid had harnessed a chicken. A burst of laughter filled the loft, and as Aaron leaned his head back to join in, he glanced over to find Jonathan studying him. Jonathan's face was serious, unsmiling. Aaron's immediately became the same. He rose and came to Jonathan, asking, “Everything all right at home?” He knew the letter was from Mary.

“Yup,” Jonathan answered, snapping out of whatever had sobered him. “Mary sends her regards.”

The men settled down, climbed into their rolls, grunting and yawning and shifting around to get comfortable. Someone turned out the lantern, and Jonathan considered again what Mary had said. She was right, but he needed time to sort his mind. Tomorrow was Sunday. They'd work the day as if it were any other, for crops came before worship this time of year in Dakota. But they'd probably cut the day short. He and Aaron'd have time to talk then.

 

As Jonathan expected, they came in from the fields a couple of hours before sunset the following day. The men were invited to stay in the kitchen to pass the evening, and Mrs. Getchner
got out the tin popper and popped corn at the range, where the men settled to enjoy both the corn and the warmth.

Jonathan was thinking of asking Aaron to walk out toward the barn with him when Aaron stretched and said he guessed he'd turn in early. It saved Jonathan from making unnecessary excuses for their leaving. They went to the loft together, going through the familiar ritual of lantern and bedrolls.

It was darkly quiet, the dusty, sweet smell of the hay pleasant and familiar. There were few night sounds to be heard, but Jonathan could hear his brother's breathing, could hear his own heart beating at a stepped-up pace. He wanted to say things right, knew that if he failed, it could drive the wedge deeper between himself and Aaron. He began, with the words still unsure in his mind, “Aaron, you awake?”

“Yeah,” Aaron grunted.

“It appears we got some things to settle between us,” Jonathan began.

“I figured this was coming.”

“Yeah?” The way Jonathan said it, Aaron knew how hard this was for him.

“What took you so long getting around to it?” Aaron asked.

“Thought it might settle itself.” In his halting way he added, “Didn't, though.”

Aaron wondered what Jonathan wanted of him, wondered what had finally prompted him to speak. He asked, “Did Mary say something in her letter?”

“She, ah…” Jonathan cleared his throat, giv
ing himself time to make his thoughts clearer. “Ah…she thinks it's best we talk about it between us, sort of, settle the air a bit. 'He paused, then added, “Reckon she's right.”

Still, Jonathan didn't mention the baby. Did he want Aaron to admit he was the father or what? Aaron knew how hard this must be for his brother, and at last Aaron prompted, “About the baby?”

“Yes.” But still Jonathan didn't say more. He wanted to but couldn't. They lay side by side in the dark, listening to each other breathe, make small movements, thoughts of Mary glimmering through their minds. Thoughts of their brotherhood came, too, of the rift they'd suffered, how the rift had become a chasm. The silence grew lengthy, and Aaron waited in vain for Jonathan to say more. Drawing a deep breath, feeling a mixture of trepidation and release all at once, he said, “Mary said the baby is mine.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” Jonathan said, his heart hammering fit to burst.

“We didn't intend it, Jonathan. It just happened, that's all.”

Another silence weighted them down while both men sought for an understanding.

“I'm sorry, Jonathan,” Aaron said, reaching his own understanding.

“I am, too,” came Jonathan's voice. “I thought I wouldn't be, but I am.”

The trepidation easing, Aaron asked, “What made you ask it of us?”

“At the time it seemed the clear way. I guess I talked myself into it being the clear way.”

“Have you got any idea the pain it caused Mary…and me? We didn't see it in the same light as you did, Jonathan.”

“I reckon I know that now. Even after I asked it I never thought you'd do it, you were so mad. But it's a funny thing how it worked out like I asked, anyway, about the baby and all. I can't say I ain't happy about the baby. Guess I gotta thank you for that.”

“If it was the other way around,” Aaron said, “I don't think I'd be thanking you. If she were my wife, I'd kill the man who laid a hand on her.”

Jonathan, in the darkness beside his brother, realized then the depth of feelings he'd been author to. He'd been so sure there was nothing between Aaron and Mary before the start of this. Chances are there hadn't been. But what a fool he'd been to think a thing like that could happen and leave people the same afterward.

“You love her, then?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Should he lie and add to the damage already done? Or would the truth do more damage? Aaron plunged the rest of the way. “I love her, Jonathan. I can't deny it. I reckon she's what I was looking to find—only I never knew it till this happened. She was always too close for me to see.”

A pang of sudden regret and fear hit Jonathan, his fear of losing Mary becoming a real possibility. “What about you and Priscilla?” he asked hopefully.

“We tried, Jonathan, but it just wouldn't work
for us.” After a pause he admitted, “We never really loved each other. We were just convenient, I guess.”

“Seemed for a while there, you two got on just fine,” Jonathan offered, but he knew it was wishful thinking.

“It's not hard to get on fine with half of Moran Township marching you up the aisle before you know what's happening. With everybody pushing and shoving at us, I guess I thought she was probably the right one for me. Aw, hell, I don't know, Jonathan. Sometimes I thought maybe I loved her. But I guess we don't always pick who we love. If we could, Pris and I would be married by now.”

“You don't intend to patch it up with her, then?”

“No. Priscilla just doesn't measure up anymore. Mary's your wife. You should know she's not a woman you…” But Aaron found that any way he tried to say what he meant would reveal too much. “Aw, hell, Jonathan. I just need some time to get over this, that's all. I could no more rebound back to Pris right now than you could tell the good citizens of Moran that the baby is mine.”

Oh, that hurt, but Jonathan guessed he deserved it. He knew it meant an even deeper involvement than he'd first suspected. At least on Aaron's part. And in spite of himself, he wanted to know the truth about Mary's feelings, too. “And what about Mary?” he couldn't help asking. “Does she love you, too?”

Aaron found he couldn't strip every shed of
pride away from Jonathan by saying yes. “Like I said, she's your wife. That's for you to ask her, for her to say. What did she say in her letter?”

“That there'll be nothing more between you and we'll say the baby's mine. She says you'll find things will work out best this way.”

Of course that's what she said, Aaron thought. Hadn't she already told him the same thing that night in the barn? She was right, of course, but that didn't make it any easier. Still, it was up to him to confirm it to Jonathan. “That's how it'll be, then, Jonathan, and I swear that's the truth.”

They could hear voices near the barn and knew the others would be mounting the ladder soon. But there was one more thing Aaron had to make sure of. Would Jonathan understand that even though he gave up any claim on the baby he was still concerned for the child's welfare and happiness?

“About the baby…” Aaron started, then hesitated.

And for once in his life Jonathan grasped Aaron's feelings intuitively. “I'll love it, never fear. And it'll never know the truth from me.”

“Jesus, it'll be hard,” Aaron admitted in a husky voice. Thinking of the life he'd helped create, of giving it up before it was even whole, he added, “It'll be hell, Jonathan.”

The men arrived then, cutting short the sifting of the chaff. Both Aaron and Jonathan lay awake for hours, thinking.

 

Work made the days go faster, and Mary kept busy in an effort to hurry them. She'd put off making winter sauerkraut until this time when
the men were gone. She'd stored the largest, firmest heads of cabbage in the root cellar and now sliced them, added salt and caraway seeds, and beat the mixture with a stomper, smashing it into its own juices and leaving it to ferment.

Navy beans from the garden had been drying since picking time. She spent a day winnowing these in the windy yard, pouring the beans noisily from dishpan to roaster many times until the dried pods were gone, blown free by the October winds. She stored away the cleanly blown kernels.

She dug up gladioli and dahlia bulbs from the garden, tearing their dried tops off, washing and storing them until next spring. The frosts had finished all but the last few resisting chrysanthemums, and she picked them and took them into the house for a bit of cheer. She burned the pile of dead stalks and leaves from the garden on a late, cool afternoon, feeling the days cooling toward winter, the westering sun lowering earlier each day.

She cleaned the coops, the last time before the snow flew, and went down to the barn to visit with Tony and Amos when they came to do the chores. But they'd never take time to come up to the house for a cup of coffee. They had work of their own to do and couldn't take time for pleasantries. So the house remained too silent, the tabletop too free of crumbs, the early-morning fires too lavish for just one.

She talked to the baby, referring to herself often now as “Mama,” but never calling anybody “Daddy,” feeling that she couldn't yet give that name to either Jonathan or Aaron.

The evenings were the worst, the time right before supper when families should be a-gathering home, but when she had the urge to feel sorry for herself she quickly talked herself out of it, saying again, “I'm a fine one to be feeling sorry for myself!”

She waited until she thought they'd be coming home very soon before she washed blankets and bedspreads, giving them their last prewinter airing. Hauling the heavy things up the stairs late one day, she made up her and Jonathan's bed first, then took the other fresh things into Aaron's room, where the slanted rays of sun sliced low through the west window. Tugging at the sheets and laying the fresh quilts and coverlet on his bed, she thought again of the night she'd spent there with him, of all it had yielded and all it had cost. She caught herself doing more than just dropping the pillows into place, then shook herself and freed her mind of Aaron once again.

It seemed
like the answer to all their problems when Getchner approached Aaron in early November, saying, “The threshing'll be done the end of this week, but I could use an extra hand around here till Christmas or so, if you'd care to stay on.”

The other hands were all married. Aaron, being single, would be more likely to agree.

“The missus'd like to visit our girl in Fargo and do some shoppin' for the holidays. Need somebody to see to the small stock if we go. Machinery needs a good goin' over after harvestin', too.” Getchner hurried on, “‘Course, you'd sleep in the house. Gettin' too cold to expect you to stay in the barn.” Getchner couldn't know that right now Aaron would have slept in the fields for such an offer as he'd just made. “Pay'd be as good as if you was threshin',” Getchner added.

Aaron smiled, offered his hand, and said, “You've got a man till Christmas, sir.”

 

“Getchner offered to keep me on for a few more weeks—as kind of an odd-jobs man, you might say.” It was the night before their return.
There was a holiday feeling among the men, a camaraderie created by their eagerness for tomorrow. “I told him I'd stay on,” Aaron finished, watching as Jonathan folded and rolled his extra clothes, preparing them for morning.

Aaron's statement slowed Jonathan's hands. He knew this was a blessing in disguise, yet an emptiness crept through him as he replied, “The pay's good here. Getchner's a right fair man.”

“That he is.” Aaron kept his tone light. “I'll have full pockets, come Christmastime.”

Jonathan continued fiddling with the clothes unnecessarily, keeping his hands busy to cover his confused feelings. He and Aaron had changed since their talk. What they shared might not be exactly peace, but it was an understanding of feelings that was new. The mellowing had sweetened their relationship, strengthened their brotherhood. Jonathan felt that new closeness now. He'd miss Aaron at home, and he knew it. Under this newfound amity, Jonathan was still at a loss to say what he felt, the turmoil within him still beyond expression. The closest he could come to voicing it was, “Have I put you out of your own home, then, Aaron?”

“No, Jonathan,” Aaron assured him offhandedly. “No, why—hell! It's only a few weeks.”

“You'll be home for Christmas, then?”

“That depends on when Getchner's through with me here, huh?” A fleeting picture of the Yuletide living room at home limned Aaron's memory, but he pushed it away.

“Mary'd be lookin' for you,” Jonathan said, meaning that he would, too. But he simply couldn't say so yet.

Aaron chuckled and answered noncommittally, “We'll see, we'll see. Meantime, I'll need a few more winter things. Could you ask her to pack them up and send them out to me?”

“Anything, Aaron,” his brother offered.

They spent the time before the lantern dimmed making verbal notes on what should be sent to Enderland, guessing it wouldn't take but a couple of days for a carton to get out there.

 

As if the morning knew the men's jobs were finished, it signaled their release with the first, fine-flown flecks of snow. Getchner, at the seat of the buckboard, hitched his collar tighter to his red neck, anxious to roll. The men were arranging their packs on the crowded wagon, jostling one another in good spirits. Jonathan tossed his roll up, saying, “Stash that for me, Joe, will ya?” Then he, too, hitched his collar up, turning to Aaron. His breath was white in the crisp air as he admonished gruffly, “Now, you take care of yourself, boy, you hear? And we'll be lookin' for you, come Christmas.”

Aaron stood jamming his gloves on tighter, taking longer than necessary, jabbing the left hand against the right long after the gloves were snug. At last he reached one toward Jonathan, who clasped it tightly as Aaron said, “You've got a sight more to take care of than I do. You see to it, brother.”

“Don't worry, I will.” And as he said it, they pitched together, roughly slapping each other's shoulders, their gloved hands making dull thuds before Jonathan broke away to jump onto the buckboard. It jerked to life with a lurch as Getch
ner slapped the team into action. Aaron stood with shoulders hunched, hands in pockets in spite of the gloves. The wind blew from the northwest at the wagon's tail, hustling it as it went, ignorant of the loneliness in the man who watched it go.

 

The men had been gone twenty-six days, but it seemed like a year. Then, at last, Jonathan's letter arrived, saying they'd be in on the late-afternoon train. Amos and Tony had come to do chores for the last time this morning. Clem Volence took the rig to town and left it at Anson's. All that was left to do now was wait.

The day had flown by. Mary had cleaned the already clean house, baked bread, and butchered a fat hen for noodle soup. It was a joy for her to be doing again for the men. It seemed as if the house itself took on an expectant air. The warmth of the range, the aromas of the foods, the scrubbed and polished rooms extended a welcome.

As the day flew, the last hour crawled. Mary's footsteps returned again and again to the east window, where she watched for the rig. The weather had turned suddenly cold during the night, and she worried about their warmth, as if Jonathan and Aaron were children.

She smoothed her apron for the hundredth time; then, glancing outside, she caught first sight of the horse topping the hill. As if surprised at finding herself in an apron, she flew to the pantry, tearing at the ties to remove it as she went. Returning to the window, she saw the rig pull over the nearer hill, but the bonnet was up
and she couldn't distinguish any figures inside. Where was her shawl? In the living-room closet…She charged there to retrieve it and quickly threw it around her shoulders, gaining the porch steps just as the buggy drew up under the elms.

Jonathan was stepping down, his back to her and the wind, and she flew down the yard, down the wind, calling his name. His big, welcome arms circled her small shoulders, and his face was cold against her warm cheek. His mouth, though, was warm on hers as he tasted her welcome.

Releasing her, he scolded, “You'll catch your death, girl. Get back inside.” And he turned to grab his roll from the buggy.

But glancing into the empty conveyance, she said, “Where's Aaron?”

Jonathan swung back to face her, the roll between them as he answered, “Getchner asked him to stay on awhile.” He watched her face, but no glimmer of change marked it. The wind threw a stray strand of hair across her cheek, reminding him that she had only a light shawl on. “Get back up to the house,” he ordered easily. “I'll be up as soon as I stable the mare.”

When he entered the kitchen she was kneeling beside his opened bedroll, picking stray wisps of hay from it. His spare clothes were in a pile beside her. She looked up and smiled at him, and he saw what he had not seen outside, how much she had grown. Her belly had rounded, and her thighs, as she knelt, formed a cradle for its bulge.

“You brought home half the harvest,” she smiled, sweeping the transient pieces of hay into her hand.

He turned to hang his jacket on the hook behind the door, chuckling as he crossed the kitchen to where she knelt.

“Maybe,” he said, reaching a hand toward her, “but it doesn't need raking right now.” He made a tug at her hand. She rose and he noticed a new awkwardness that her added weight caused now.

She lifted the stove lid and brushed the hay into the fire, a jumble of thoughts and feelings threading her mind. In the five minutes he'd been home, Jonathan had shown a solicitousness to her that was unlike him. The hardness seemed gone from him. Was it because he'd missed her, or because Aaron hadn't come back, or what?

He sat down in the rocker by the stove, sighing, “Ahh, home.”

She put the bedroll at the foot of the stairs and, coming back into the kitchen, caught Jonathan's eyes on her stomach. As if acknowledging his glance, her hands went to it. She was suddenly self-conscious and could no more hide it than she could hide her newly acquired girth beneath her splayed fingers.

Jonathan cleared his throat.

“Mary,” he began, and she knew he was having his usual difficulty voicing his thoughts.

“Yes, Jonathan?” she urged.

He rocked forward, resting elbows on knees, rubbing his palms together as if he might find the words between them.

“Everything's all right between Aaron and me.” He paused, then went on haltingly, “We talked…we talked like you said, and it's good we did.”

“Then why isn't he here?” she asked as gently as she could, but her question still cut into him. Some quiver of muscle at his temple told her he mistook her question, and she hurried on, “Oh, Jonathan, don't look away from me. Didn't I promise in my letter that there was no more between me and Aaron? Will you look at me like this every time I mention his name? He's your brother, Jonathan. This is his house we're living in. I must know.”

“Getchner asked him to stay on till Christmas or so. He didn't know exactly how long. We settled our differences, though, and Aaron'll be back before long.”

“To stay?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Jonathan admitted. “It's a two-man farm, Mary.”

But she knew that. Instead of replying, she walked toward the pantry and got the coffee grinder. “I'll get supper,” she said quietly, “and then you can tell me all about Dakota.”

She was on her way back to the stove when Jonathan rose slowly from the rocker, a look of near-agony on his face. “Dakota was lonely,” was all he said, but it stopped her in midstep and she whirled to reach her arms toward him.

“Oh, Jonathan,” she crooned as her arms went around his neck. He felt the coffee grinder dig into his shoulder blade, but he didn't care. He crushed her against him, murmuring her name against her hair. The coffee grinder fell to the floor with a splintering crash, but they remained as they were, holding each other, sharing a new bond.

“I love you, Jonathan,” Mary whispered, and
she found it was true. It was easier to love this warm Jonathan, easy to think he loved her, too.

Her words brought a quickening to his loins and a quick wish to his mind. I wish I could take her up to bed right now, he thought as he ran his hands over her back, bringing her body tightly against his. But he forced a calm to himself, burying the thought that seemed suddenly prurient again when he opened his eyes to the kitchen light. Releasing her, he almost felt that she'd have responded, regardless of the time of day. He chastised himself, reluctantly turning Mary free, wondering what folly had captured him to even think such a thing, especially with Mary in her condition.

Mary turned to her supper preparations to hide her chagrin. Her body felt suddenly chilled, abashed at being turned away so abruptly. She had offered herself to Jonathan, and he'd denied her. Would this be the way of it forever? Her needs had been so simple before Aaron. She longed to return to that state, to quell these urgings that now overtook her without warning. But what had lain asleep in Mary had lain too long, rested too well. It seemed it would stay aroused for a long time to come.

 

Aaron's decision to stay on in Dakota necessitated some changes in the early-winter planning. The serious snows had held off, but November's temperatures dropped down below freezing, cold enough to keep meat, bringing butchering time. Jonathan and Clem Volence made plans to exchange help with the chore because it required two men. They butchered at
Jonathan's place one cold day in late November, out on the south side of the granary where the steam rose from a huge cast-iron pot. In spite of the chilling cold, the fire under the pot warmed Jonathan's hands as he added ashes to the simmering water. A pulley and rope hung in the sturdy oak tree that had been pressed into such use many times before. Together he and Clem slew the hog, bled it, and hoisted it into the oak with the aid of the pulley. A large wooden barrel leaned on a cross-prop beneath the carcass, forming a kind of chute that held the boiling ash water. It regurgitated belching bubbles as the two men lowered the pig's forequarters into it. The drenching and scalding continued as they slid the carcass up and down, removing bristles as it scraped against the barrel staves. The process was repeated on the rear end, with more scalding water and more scraping. On a table of saw-horses and planks the carcass was laid to be knife-scraped until the hide was clean and hairless.

“This time of year I wish I had a boy to help out,” Clem confided.

“Yup. A boy Priscilla's age would be mighty helpful,” Jonathan agreed.

“'Course, I wouldn't trade Priscilla. She's been a big help to her ma since the baby came and all. We thought for a while there we might lose her to Aaron, but he sure ain't been around much lately.” Clem squinted a look at Jonathan as he replied, but Jonathan remained his stolid self, scraping away at the carcass.

“Reckon Aaron doesn't know what he wants right now.”

“That young Michalek has been hangin' around a lot. Agnes don't think near as much of him as she does of Aaron. That don't faze Priscilla none, though—she just tells her ma to quit worryin'. Just the same, we miss seein' Aaron around.”

“Mary misses seein' Priscilla, too. Used to get together a lot on Sundays.” Jonathan stopped his scraping then and looked at Clem from under lowered brows. “Guess it's not for you nor me to say what they do, though.” Then he reached for a board and drew it through the hog's ankle tendons and said, “Let's hoist 'er up now. She's ready to be split and drawn,” and the subject of Aaron and Priscilla was put aside.

Mary came downyard, swaddled in mittens, scarf, and coat, a dishpan of salt water propped on her hip. “I came to get the heart and liver for soaking,” she called. They needed immediate attention if they were to be edible.